


part of one body

by pieta



Category: Daft Punk
Genre: M/M, Thomas-centric, drabblefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 21:45:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4365311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pieta/pseuds/pieta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>drabble: people can grow apart, but sometimes they can meet again. (slightly label!au) </p><p>"what will you do? if you don’t want to come back,<br/>would you want me to come to you?"<br/>-Rimbaud</p>
            </blockquote>





	part of one body

**Author's Note:**

> hello! so this is basically the product of writers block on a larger operation + still wanting to write about guy and thomas + reading an article about elliott smith and coming across a lyric that made this whole thing happen. It was written fairly quickly but I had to get it out, and I think it's alright. It's incredibly Thomas-centric and I have no idea if it made sense.

            At some point, a slingshot along his timeline, Thomas realizes it’s been years since he last talked with him. He’s got his own company now, Roulé, and it’s doing well. It’s doing more than well, actually—it’s doing great. Thomas has gained a reputation among other content creators, his style is formidable, and every day new copycats crop up trying to get a piece of the pie.

            They never do. The pie has long since been sliced in half, one half Thomas’s, the other half his. Crydamoure (he works hard not to punish himself by wondering what the inspiration for that name was) is just as reputable, just as formidable, just as impressive as Roulé. Where Roulé’s projects have areas of warmth, Crydamoure’s have areas of coolness, and wherever Roulé is a little cool, Crydamoure has warmth. The critics constantly talk about how it’s yin and yang, musical duality, puzzle pieces.

            Crydamoure is known for its mystery, even more so than Roulé. Many people are still not sure who the head of it is, the only evidence of their identity being dubious blurry pictures of a smallish man in sunglasses and fur-ruffed coats. Thomas has been a little more transparent with Roulé —not fame-mongering by any length, but more open to interviews, less secretive. Few people know what he looks like, but his identity is not shrouded in secret.

            It’s just like Guy, he supposes, to be seclusive. He’s always been shy to the point of reproach, has always spoken as little as possible. Thomas didn’t like to admit it, but he had enjoyed feeling like the one who had slipped between the cracks in Guy’s armor. He was the one who Guy went out with, shared his ideas with.

            But then one day he started to eke himself out of Thomas’s life. A few missed meetings, screened phone calls, a move to a new apartment, and Guy was gone. Thomas never understood it. He didn’t know if he’d done something horrible, had overstepped some boundary, had said something hurtful. There had been no explanation. One minute Guy was there, sitting with him in his bedroom tentatively trying out samples and beats, and the next minute he was gone.

 

            Despite his musical success and the fact that he was living his dream, Thomas wasn’t ever really happy. He listens to his tracks and feels like they’re either missing something vital or are over-contrived. The lyrics are either insipid or are trying too hard. He collaborates with someone and even when they work well, in the back of his mind it grates like sandpaper. Sometimes it feels like he’s lost an arm without noticing, or even a part of his brain.

            He still dreams about those few months he had with Guy in his bedroom. The attachment of wires. The dreams are hazy, but the real life experiences had already been idyllic and dreamlike to begin with. Sounds being made—music. No words are written to express the emotions, because the sounds themselves are the emotion.

            Thomas can still hear it, a soft strain of music, their music, together.  

 

            Thomas watches as Guy hugs his executive producer and walks up to the stage, head bowed respectfully. The applause was deafening- not only because Crydamoure truly deserved the award it was being given, but because for the first time in his career, Guy was going up to be seen by the world.

            He’s just as short as ever, and his hair is still curly and dark like it used to be. He’s older, just like Thomas is, but his face is still young—soft eyes, small mouth, delicate nose. It makes Thomas feel like he’s choking and he barely processes Guy’s acceptance speech.

            He does, however, notice Guy’s gaze fall upon him for a brief second. Guy’s words stumble a little, but no one seems to notice.

 

             Thomas feels feverish, stepping through the crowd of the award show’s afterparty. He himself had won an award, so every few yards there was an enthusiastic greeting to exchange, congratulations to accept. None of it mattered so much as following Guy’s trail, subtly asking if people had seen Crydamoure, where he had gone.

            After half an hour of searching, Thomas gets spit out onto the other side of the crowd. He’s lost the people he came with, the room is dark, and he hasn’t seen a single glimpse of Guy. A cloudy panic settles in his throat, and he tries to cling onto the feeling, the feeling, the feeling. Guy. A buzzy old demo that they were so proud of.

            He turns around, bracing himself to start looking again, and he bumps into someone. They curse in French, and Thomas knows.

            For a moment his brain shuts down, but then he sees the realization dawn on Guy and his mind shoots back to life.  

            “Guy. Congratulations,” he says, and he feels like he’s dying.

            “Thank you.” Guy tucks a piece of hair back. It’s dark, but he’s up close now, no longer a glittering distant star on the stage. This time, finally, he’s in reach, and Thomas touches his arm. Guy makes an aborted movement as if to pull away, but in the end lets the hand rest there.

 

            “Why did you disappear like that?” Thomas finally asks. He can faintly hear the sounds of Paris traffic down below, but Guy's apartment is so far off of the ground that it doesn't bother him.

            Guy is silent for a long time. Thomas stares at the ceiling and waits. He knows it’s a loaded question, and knows that Guy has probably been working on the answer for a long time.

            “It felt like the only thing I could do,” Guy starts, voice soft. His hair is dark and it blossoms around his face on the pillow.  “I knew from looking in the mirror what love looked like on a person, but whenever I looked at you I saw nothing.”  

            “I didn’t figure it out until later,” Thomas says. _I love you now,_ he doesn’t say, but he knows he doesn’t need to.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, find me at instntcrsh.tumblr.com and let me bother you about Daft Punk. I've loved them for 8 years and I haven't talk to anyone about them.


End file.
